


Goodwill For To Have

by the_ragnarok



Series: threesome!fic [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Humiliation, Infidelity, M/M, Threesome - F/M/M, prostitution kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames and Mal have been seducing each other for years. But this time, Mal brings backup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodwill For To Have

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the marvelous viva_gloria. My thanks to everyone who watched and cheered when I wrote this.

Eames has known Mal for – oh, years, far too long to actually remember. Their first meeting is lost in the haze that surrounds all of Eames' youth, wrought of too much bad booze and unjustified violence. He was a much angrier person then, she much more prone to bad decisions and worse haircuts.

He can't remember who first came up with their game. It's one of many, really, various gambles and dares that they've thrown at each other over the years. They bring out the best and worst in each other, Mal and him, all the glory and stupidity of their misspent youths.

So it is that when Mal calls him and says, "There's a job," without preamble, Eames grins and drawls in mock indecision, "Oh, I couldn't possibly, previous obligations. So many things to do, darling, you know how it goes."

The last time it was Mal who hemmed and hawed, so that Eames had to come all the way to bloody California, whisk her away from her husband and brat and ply her with excellent champagne and better cunnilingus until she said yes.

(Or, to put it more accurately – "Eames. _Eames_. If you stop I will shove this gun into your – _yes_.")

The time before that, she'd shown up at his hotel room with nothing on her but a long coat, a thigh holster, a smile and some very well made case notes. Eames asked her, later, who made those, but she fluttered her eyelashes and demurred.

"You wouldn't ask me to give up all my secrets, would you?" she said, with that mischievous smile he so loved.

"You would only come up with new ones to perplex me." He kissed her cheek, and she laughed and made him help her button up the shirt he'd loaned her.

Therefore, it was quite reasonable to say that Eames had some expectations of their next encounter. That is to say, he'd cleared up his schedule, made sure his house was in a state fit for company, and carefully timed his shave to guarantee stubble optimal to Mal's exacting demands.

What Eames does not bloody expect her to do is bring company along.

"Hello, Eames." Mal breezes inside. In her fluttering yellow sundress, she could as easily be the twenty-year-old he first met. Her cheerful smile stands in stark contradiction to her companion's scowl.

"Mal," Eames says, putting on his most fake smile to irk her. "I do believe you haven't introduced me to your," and it takes everything in Eames not the make the pause so long as to be purposefully rude, "guest."

"This is Arthur," Mal says. "He's here to help convince you."

"Is he," Eames says, narrowing his eyes at the young man. To his horror, Arthur's pulling something out of his jacket. If Mal thinks Eames won't shoot her if he has to – oh, bugger it. He'd say it's unlike Mal to change the rules on him all of a sudden, but that would be a lie, wouldn't it.

Then Eames blinks, because what Arthur drew out is a long black line – a leash, which he hands to Mal. Who then hooks it up to – a bloody collar, it appears, that Arthur hid under that well-starched shirt. The other end Mal ties neatly around a one of the kitchen table's legs and pushes Arthur to sit in one of Eames' chairs.

"I see," Eames says, and his smile is starting to grow real at the edges. He walks around, giving them both a good looking over. "What's this, Mal? Bringing backup? Afraid you've lost your edge, are you?"

Mal snorts. "I have an advantage, Eames," she says simply. "Have you ever known me not to use one of those?"

There's a tense silence while they take each other's measure, until Arthur says, "For fuck's sake," in a rather deeper voice than Eames was expecting.

Mal's eyebrows rise. "You have something to add, Arthur?"

They lock gazes for a moment. Arthur drops his first. "I apologize."

Mal rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "Do forgive Arthur," she says to Eames. "He's not used to polite company."

"Do forgive Mal, Arthur," Eames says with a similar tone of voice. "She tends to talk above people's heads." That wasn't quite a smile, that flicker on Arthur's face, but Eames counts it as a win anyway.

"So rude," Mal says, but she extends her hand to him anyway. Eames lingers over it, kissing the center of her palm with some degree of concentration. He looks up to see Arthur's eyes on him, searching. Hungry.

"So tell me, Arthur," Eames says. "What has our lovely Mal taught you to do?"

Arthur straightens in his chair, almost imperceptibly. "Choose a suit," he says. "Fix a PASIV."

"Suck cock," Mal says. Arthur doesn't move, but his neck flushes a very faint pink. "Take a good buggering." Arthur's posture is truly a thing of wonder. It makes Eames think of sticks and arses, and then of sticking things into arses, and that's a very nice line of thinking indeed. "Or a good flogging."

"High praise," Eames says, and moves to put his hand on Arthur's shoulder.

Mal swats him away. "Is this your notion of manners, Eames? You haven't even offered us tea."

Arthur, predictably enough, takes coffee. Mal mainly uses her tea to dunk her biscuits in before she eats them, only sipping at it halfheartedly. Eames drinks his own brew and looks at them.

He looks like a sharp young professional, Arthur does, even collared and leashed. Perhaps even more so, for his cool composure. He keeps darting glances at Mal, but you'd have to be highly observant to see that. Besides, if what Mal said is true, he's new to the business. Best for him to exercise caution.

"It's been very lovely to see you two," Eames says, putting his mug down with a decisive _thump_. "But I'm sure you have work to do."

"We do." Mal's eyes shine when she's talking. It's really more distracting that it should be. "You'll love this job, Eames."

"Am I taking this job? Odd, I distinctly remember saying I have no time." No point in watching Mal's face, even, except for the obvious pleasure of it. Eames knows the rules of this exchange by heart. But Arthur looks up when Eames speak, Arthur's sharp eyes focusing on him. Which is... interesting. How much has Mal told him, anyway?

"I'm sure we can find an incentive," Mal says, and Eames knows this tone of voice for a signal to sit up and listen.

No reason to go down without a fight, though. "Oh?" he says, trying his best to look perfectly unmoved. Eames' best is very, very good.

Mal hikes up her skirt, and this wrings a reaction out of Arthur at last, a sudden widening of his eyes, his lips parting in what Eames doubts is a controlled or even voluntary reaction.

Eames would quite like to react the same, in fact. Mal's _packing_. Nobody, in any fair universe, should have to hide their reaction to that. It looks lovely on her, black harness standing out against the creamy skin of her thighs, dildo jutting proud. Eames takes in the sight of her legs, from the hair curling pretty at her pussy to the shoes she’s wearing, black and lacy with heels so high that it’s a marvel she can keep her balance.

Arthur bows his neck slightly, but otherwise doesn't move until Mal grabs him by the hair.

"Show Mr. Eames what I've taught you," she says, and Eames doesn't think he could stand to look away from this, not for all the fortunes of the world.

Arthur's lips are beautifully shaped, and they wrap around Mal's cock like Arthur's a grade-A professional. If indeed he was recently taught how to do this, he must be one hell of a quick learner.

Moreover, Arthur's showing an enthusiasm that – Eames wants to say can't be taught, except that's not true and nobody knows that better than Eames. It should spoil it, maybe, that line of thinking, except that Eames was always fascinated by the backstage side of everything.

If Mal taught this lovely young man to fake attraction, that may be even more interesting than if it's the genuine article.

If so, he fakes very well indeed, mouthing sloppy around her silicone erection and trying to take more of it than he apparently can – he chokes on it a little, going back for a moment to catch his breath before diving back into it, eyes closed.

"Your technique could use some help, Arthur," Eames murmurs, staring in fascination.

Arthur pulls off to glare at him, then his gaze snaps back to Mal.

She pets his hair before he opens his mouth. "It is all right," she says with a quirk of her mouth. "I did bring you here to meet Eames, did I not?" Her smile widens. "Now back as you were, Arthur. I wouldn't want Mr. Eames to think you lacking in stamina."

Eames thinks nothing of the sort, but he's hardly going to deny himself that kind of show. He sits back, spreads his legs to give his growing erection room.

He's about to unzip when Mal, bloody mind-reader that she sometimes is, glances at him sharply. "Nothing of the sort, Eames," she says, pulling her cock out of Arthur's mouth. Arthur shuts it right quick, but Eames can read people, can just about hear the whimper that Arthur nearly emitted.

She tucks herself into neatness and sits back down, prim as you please. "If we may return to discussing the job now?"

Eames studies her face, the curve of her eyebrow. There are no straight lines anywhere about Mal, least of all in her thinking. Normally he would hold out for a better prize, but it's not like Mal doesn't _want_ the debauchery he'd ask for anyway.

Still, sometimes the haggling is fun in and of itself. "And what would you give me for it?" He keeps his voice at a careless lazy drawl that so easily infuriates Mal. "The services of your boy, here?"

He half-expects Arthur to take offense to something about that, anything, but he only looks downward and waits. Mal pets the hair at the back of Arthur's neck.

"Would you like to, love?" she asks, and Eames sees nothing in him but stillness. But Mal smiles anyway. "Arthur, please tell Eames your safewords."

Arthur looks him in the eye then. "Stoplight system," he says, "and for a full stop, muffins."

"Muffins," Eames repeats. "All right. Stoplight system all around, then?" He waits for their assenting nods. "My safeword is Monet."

He goes around the table, glances at Mal for permission before taking Arthur's chin in his hand. With Arthur sitting, it puts his mouth at a height that Eames can't think too much about.

"Do you like sucking cock, Arthur?" He keeps his voice light, but his hand is only waiting to tighten.

"No." Arthur's expression is implacable, staring right at Eames, uncowed. Eames grins.

"But you'll do it anyway."

Arthur can't nod, exactly, with his head held as it is. "For Mal," Eames says, and Arthur says, "Yes," as if that's the most obvious thing in the world.

Eames reaches for his zipper and he feels Mal's hand on his wrist. "Not until you sign," Mal says, and Eames groans theatrically even as he reaches for the pen.

But sign his name he does – well, _a_ name, what's in one of those, really – and Mal draws him into a kiss, deep and filthy like nobody does better than her. Eames puts his hand on the curve of her waist, his other hand sliding up her thigh under the skirt of her dress.

"Eat me out," Mal says when they disentangle for a breath. "Arthur will watch."

Eames still isn't quite sure what their game is, but he's more than happy to try and find out.

Going down on Mal is familiar and exciting all at once, like taking a bike down a steep hill or slipping a forgery into place. She responds to him well, pulls on his hair the way he likes. Her noises are even more extravagant than usual, and Eames wonders who she's putting a show on for before he remembers.

He leans back to look at Arthur, and he can't fault her for it. Arthur looks _devastated._

As a matter of fact, Eames isn't entirely sure it's the good kind of devastated. "Give us a color, darling." He smooths a hand across Arthur's cheek.

Arthur's eyes narrow like he's tempted to bite. "Green," he snaps, and Eames grins at him and goes back down. As it were.

He doesn't get Mal all the way there before she pushes him away. "These clothes are offending my eyes," she says, looking at him with pursed lips. "Arthur, remove them."

Eames doesn't resist the temptation to cop a feel as Arthur does, delighting in the hardness he finds in Arthur's trousers, the promise of warm skin behind stiff pressed fabric. "So I'm to be nude while you two remain dressed?" He eyes Arthur.

Arthur doesn't answer, only unbuttons his shirt with utmost efficiency. Mal laughs and says, "For this moment. The next one, who can tell?"

Who indeed? Although if Eames doesn't get his hands on Arthur's skin... Well, actually, the thought of that frustration is surprisingly lovely. Eames will have to give it further thought.

Except then, at Mal's subtle beckon, Arthur goes to his knees and Eames can't think any more.

Arthur's mouth is hot and skilled, and if his technique isn't perfect, it's far from lacking. Eames runs his fingers through Arthur's hair, careful.

"You may as well push." Mal sits open legged on the table, not even attempting modesty; but then, why would she? When had she ever done that? "He can take it if you fuck his mouth."

Eames draws a sharp breath, does not let his hands tighten in Arthur's hair. Through the haze of desire and the insistent heat of Arthur's mouth, he tries to sort out what's going on here. Does Mal want him to be forceful? Does Arthur? Ideally one sorts these things out before playing, but Mal enjoys leaving people off-balance.

Nothing to do but try, Eames supposes, and he grabs Arthur's head and fucks into his mouth, one brutal thrust that leaves Arthur shaking under his hands.

More than that, the tight constriction of Arthur's throat – something happens there. Eames isn't sure what, but Arthur's not gagging anymore. There's a wetness in the corner of his eyes and stifled noises in the back of his throat, Eames can _feel_ them trapped there.

With that, it's easy to let go, pump into Arthur's mouth while Eames' hands hold him still. The tension in Arthur's muscles loosens abruptly after the second thrust or so, until it feels like he might slip into a pile on the floor if Eames doesn't hold him up. Eames keeps a hand on the back of Arthur's neck, just under the curve of his head, another on his shoulder.

“Lovely,” he hears himself say, voice gone hoarse and deep. “So very lovely, darling.”

The slick noises coming from the table grab at his attention - and it’s a testament to Arthur’s skill that it took Eames this long to notice, given that Mal has her legs spread and is apparently has been going at it for a while, by the look of her.

Eames stills, unable to focus on both moving and the sight in front of him. Arthur makes a muffled noise of - surely it can’t be protest in anything but Eames’ imagination.

“Come here,” Mal says, and it takes a moment for Eames to disentangle himself, to convince himself to move away from the scorching heat of Arthur’s mouth. But move away he does. Arthur sags when Eames lets him go, curling into himself. His eyes are still on Mal, though, bright and hard.

Mal doesn’t take her finger out of herself as she draws Eames in. They go bare as often as not; Eames trusts her to take her pills, and they both have more than intimate knowledge of each other’s health records.

Eames sucks at Mal’s nipple, rubbing her clit with two fingers as he pushes inside her. She likes it hard, forceful enough to lift her off the table, and the noises she makes sound entirely unfeigned.

Of course, they always do. Above all things, Mal prizes her showmanship.

It doesn’t take long to make her come. Never does, whenever they meet after a long separation; Eames wonders about her husband, sometimes.

Or maybe that’s just how Mal is, hungry for newness, for change. It’s very like her, encapsulating her essence the same way that her climax does, a small flurry of twitches that’s barely noticeable compared to the extravagance before.

She lies back with a sated sigh, holding Eames’ hands in hers. “You may come now, dear,” she says, and Eames fucks into her the way he likes best, slow and deep, with a pause at the end of each thrust. He takes his time, and that’s his favorite bit about it: That he can, that he can stretch it out and enjoy the sex while it lasts. It’s lovely for Mal, who can come three or four times in rapid succession, but some of them have refractory periods to think about.

He pushes Mal into sitting up again just before coming, so he can nuzzle and bite at her neck, and she grabs his arse and pulls him deep into her until he lets go, panting.

He kisses her deep, pushing her back down into the table, until she shoves him away with a laugh.

“Let Arthur have a turn,” she says, and when Eames turns his eyes there Arthur is, kneeling on the floor, cock obscenely hard through his trousers.

Arthur rises to his feet gracefully. “Let me help you with those,” Eames says, reaching for Arthur’s belt. Arthur shies away, searching Mal’s gaze.

“Don’t encourage him, Eames.” Mal voice is fond, and Eames can hear a smile in it. “He has to earn it, first.”

Eames would ask her what she means, except then Arthur bends down to mouth at her and Eames has a pretty good idea of what that is.

Perhaps he shouldn’t be looking, since it makes him want to get hard all over again and he _can’t_ just now. Arthur’s lapping his come out of Mal, and for once Mal’s trying to restrain her reaction rather than play it up for all it’s worth.

She’s not succeeding very well.

Mal cants her hips to meet Arthur’s face, and there’s something almost like distress in her expression. It takes Eames a moment to map it out, recognize it.

“Put a finger or two in her, Arthur,” he says, and Arthur draws back for a moment to give him a look that’s pure venom.

“He’s not allowed, just yet.” Mal’s voice is dreamy. She gasps a little as Arthur returns his attentions to her.

“Isn’t he, now.” Fuck, Eames _is_ getting hard from this. It’s just soon enough to be slightly painful, to make Eames almost wish he could look away.

“He’s not been - good - oh, _God_.” Mal’s thighs close around Arthur’s head, and she drives herself at him with no sign of anything like restraint or care. It’s violent and messy, like the sides of Mal that Eames loves best, those she’ll never show anyone if she can.

“Seems good enough to me,” Eames says wryly. Mal drops back to lie on the table with a muffled _thud_ , and Arthur straightens. His face is wet with Mal. On impulse, Eames takes Arthur’s shoulders in his hand and kisses him, finding his own taste in Arthur’s mouth, Mal’s taste everywhere.

“I suppose,” Mal says from where she is, and Eames takes it as permission to _finally_ take off Arthur’s bloody suit.

But she makes a sharp noise when he tries. “No. Make him come in his pants.” Under Eames’ hand, Arthur’s cock twitches. Eames grins, hides it in Arthur’s neck, biting down. “I want him to walk out of here with seed stains on his pants, to have people see him for the whore he is.”

The noise Arthur makes at that is _beautiful_ , and Eames agreeably presses him, pets him through the stiff cloth. It’s not as lovely as bare skin, but after all, anticipation makes everything better.

“Right in your trousers,” Eames whispers in Arthur’s ear, because he knows the effect his voice has on people and Mal is not the only one who’ll never give up an advantage. “Do it for Mal, won’t you, lovely boy?” He squeezes particularly hard and Arthur’s driving into his hand now, shameless, gasping when Eames sucks bites into his neck. “Get you all marked up for everyone to see.”

Eames thinks he’s getting it now, what’s ticking behind all this finely-pressed fabric. “You want everyone to see,” he says, like it’s a revelation, squeezing at Arthur until he gasps, “Fine, all right, maybe I do,” and comes, wet and messy in Eames’ hand.

“Oh, darling,” Eames whispers in his ear, gentling him through his orgasm. “I’m going to fuck you until you _scream_.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Arthur’s gaze is steady, and Eames can’t help but adore it a little, can’t help kissing Arthur’s mouth, gone slack in orgasm.

“I’d like to see him succeed,” Mal says from her perch atop the table.

“We have the whole weekend.” Eames grins wide, giddy with the prospects of this.

“Oh?” Mal hops off the table. “That’s very certain of you, Eames. We have what we came for, don’t we, chéri?” She runs a hand down Arthur’s back. “My poor Arthur and your poor dignity. How could I make you suffer any more humiliation?”

Arthur snorts and doesn’t answer. Mal smiles at him, bright.

“Or perhaps you enjoyed it,” she says, cupping the wetness at his crotch. “Perhaps you wish for Mr. Eames to fuck you hard. Or perhaps you want him to fuck _me_ hard while you watch and ache for what you can’t have, hm?”

Arthur’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Mal’s grasp tightens, and Eames winces in sympathetic pain. “Do you?” Mal’s voice hardens. “Answer me.”

Eames thinks he loves Arthur’s eyes, how they stay alert and sharp even when everything else about him threatens to become a quivering mess. “Whatever you want, Madame.”

Her smile is wide, white teeth and red, red lips. “Correct answer, Arthur.” She turns to Eames. “I suppose we’ll be staying, then.”

“Lovely,” Eames says, and his smile is just as wide as hers.

**Author's Note:**

> I intend to write more of this - but it may be a while and this feels complete enough, so call this an ongoing series rather than a WIP.


End file.
